


They Aren't Angels, You Are

by iamavacado



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, post not-apocalypse, self doubt, wine and chocolates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 09:54:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamavacado/pseuds/iamavacado
Summary: Aziraphale hasn't heard a thing since the world didn't end. And it was starting to get to him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 98





	They Aren't Angels, You Are

**Author's Note:**

> wow, me? posting again? who would have thunk? I hope you enjoy!

To say that Aziraphale was holding back tears would be something of an understatement. 

Imagine, if you will, that a house in the middle of nowhere is being engulfed in a massive hurricane. There is several feet of debris-filled water collecting in front of the house, which is surrounded by a cardboard and duct tape fence. The cardboard is holding well enough, and the duct tape is doing a bang up job, but the water just keeps getting higher. And the cracks in the cardboard are making themselves more known with each passing raindrop. All it will take is one floating piece of wood, a particularly hardened sheet of cardstock, or even a thorough gust of wind to blow the fence down, rendering the house flooded, the cardboard a pile of brown sludge, and the duct tape useless. 

In this scenario, the house is Aziraphale’s eyes, and the fence is a half empty cup of cocoa sitting a few inches away from him. The reason for this is, the cocoa gives Aziraphale’s hands something to do. For if it were empty, he would have nothing to keep nervously holding in his palms, therefore giving his fingers the opportunity to reach into his desk drawer and pull out all the letters he had been sending Gabriel and Michael and Uriel, all sent right back to him with no response, no stamp--they hadn’t even been opened.

Then of course, he would have to be reminded of the fact that he wasn’t an angel in their eyes anymore, and he would obviously start to wonder: was he even an angel in God’s eyes anymore? And then, as it would follow, the fence would drop as if it had never existed, and he would spend the next several hours curled up in his study, wrapped in a plush blanket (surely staining it with all kinds of tears), questioning if he had ever been an angel in any of their eyes in the first place. 

Those plush blanket crying session had started to come with more frequency as the Not End end of the world had rounded into its fifth month. It wasn't that Aziraphale wanted their approval--he had all the approval he needed from other places. Other, more demonic places. 

It was more so that, he was trying to explain himself. He was trying to explain that the world not ending was a good thing, and why stopping Adam from coming into his power in the worst way possible was a _good_ thing. How humans are good things.

Part of him knew that they could never understand. They hadn't been here among them, so it was easy for them to dismiss humans as mindless drones simply waiting around for the world to end. It was easy to be angry at Aziraphale for stopping the war to end all wars for something as trivial as human life. It was, in their eyes, justifiable of them to ignore Aziraphale’s letters, and treat him as if he had never existed. 

But the other part of him still felt the hurt of their shunning. Still felt the pain of their silence, of their non replies, of their carrying on without a single worry of where he might be now, and what he might be doing. 

So he sipped his half empty, half cold glass of cocoa and tried not to think about it, while simultaneously very much thinking about it.

*

For the first time since...well, since the beginning of time, Crowley had become peckish. 

Well, not peckish, per say--peckish was a word used for being hungry. Of wanting food. It was more that he was craving. Craving was probably the more accurate word. Craving some time. Craving a certain white haired crepe eating bastard. Craving the smell of old bookshops and alcohol.

He had rarely ever allowed himself to crave, since not a year ago his lot would have drowned him and his perfect hair in a tub of holy water for craving in the way he did. For craving _who_ he did. But they weren't really focusing on him anymore. Whether they were afraid to or couldn't care less, he was free of Hell and all their nasty, lame little tricks. 

And so, because of this, he had started doing something he had been forcing himself not to do since the moment he met that one, special bastard: crave. 

He craved until his craving drove him from his flat, into his car, down central London, and to the doorstep of Aziraphale’s bookshop. In one hand was a bottle of the finest, most 10 pound-ist wine from the shop near his flat. In the other was a box of chocolates he had bought a few months ago, and had forgotten to bring to a picnic. 

Crowley tried to peek through the glass of the door. Usually, in spouts of boredom, Aziraphale would self indulgently peruse his collection of rarities, which meant that whenever Crowley came up, he could be spotted through the glass pane with ease.

But when he spied through the glass, there was no one there. Not even so much as a customer. Well, the closed sign that was permanently screwed into the door made sure of that. But still. It was unusual to see the bookstore without Aziraphale in it. 

He thought of knocking on the door, but that would be rather polite. Instead, he stepped back just enough for the door to swing open on its own, and walked through it like he lived here. Ordinarily he'd snap his fingers, wiggle his nose--you know, make it look nice. But he had things in his hands, and he had no one to impress around him, so he figured he could do this small bit of magic without the extra flair.

"'Ziraphale?" he called into the empty bookshop. "You here? I've got something. I was wondering if you had some time--"

Crowley looked down at the bottle held in his hand. Then at the chocolates. There was no answer. The air was quiet and unmoving. Not even a speck of dust came to greet him. The small potted plant in the corner of the window sill quivered at his presence, but that was about it.

"Aziraphale?" he called again, taking a step forward. "Are you all right?" Crowley set the bottle and the box of chocolates on Aziraphale's reading desk. His white coat was hanging neatly on the back of the oaken chair. There was an empty cup of something sitting in front of his letter opener and writing utensils. When Crowley looked closely, he noticed that one of the drawers was open a bit. He could see some slips of papers sticking out.

 _I shouldn't,_ he thought, reaching down and opening the drawer all the way. When he did so, he saw that the papers inside were actually envelopes. He picked one up, seeing that it was addressed to Heaven in golden ink, written in Aziraphale's careful script. Addressed to Archangel Michael, specifically. It was sealed, never opened. Another one was for Gabriel. Several of them, all to different members of heaven, all with dates going back weeks. 

Crowley furrowed his brows at this. Could Aziraphale have forgotten to send them? Impossible. Aziraphale was too tedious for that. So what could this mean?

Crowley set the envelopes back in the drawer and closed it all the way, a hint of suspicion poking in his stomach. 

Something...wasn't right. It was much too quiet in here. It wasn’t normal to come in the bookshop and not at least hear Aziraphale’s humming coming from the study. It was even more unusual to not hear a reply to Crowley’s greeting. Hm. He quieted, suddenly careful about how loud he was being. Maybe there was something in here. Maybe it had done something with Aziraphale. A human? No, Aziraphale could easily overpower a human if he truly needed to. 

Then, it must have been something stronger than a human. His mind flickered to Beezelbub. Perhaps this was some wicked way of them getting back at Crowley? By going through someone he cared about? He swallowed hard, and examined the shop around him thoroughly. 

“Oh!” 

Crowley stopped in his tracks when he heard a subdued voice coming from the study. Someone exclaiming. Followed by...were those cries? Crowely’s heart dropped. 

“Aziraphale!” he called, rushing towards the back of the bookshop. He waved his arm and the door to the study burst open, almost flying off its hinges. “Where are you? Who’s got you? Wh-”

Upon entering the study (well, more like throwing himself into the study), he saw who he was looking for: Aziraphale, curled up in the corner of two bookshelves, wrapped in a plush something. His face was buried in what looked to be a blanket, and his shoulders were bobbing up and down with his sobs. 

Upon hearing Crowley, he looked up, his cheeks stained with tears. “Crowely? Oh, my heav…” He shoved his face back in the blanket and continued crying, no doubt embarrassed for having been intruded upon by the one person he did not want to see at a time like this. 

Crowley ran down to him, pulling him up out of the blanket, and then promptly throwing the blanket across the room. “What’s wrong?” he asked as Aziraphale wrapped his arms around himself. Crowley searched him for cuts, bruises, magical injuries, anything that would indicate that someone had caused him to cower in his study in such a state. There was nothing he could see. “What’s happened?”

“Cr- leave me be, please. I’m all right, I’m all right I…” Aziraphale reached up and started to wipe the tears from his face, but Crowley conjured a handkerchief for him instead. “Thank you,” he said in a small voice, dabbing his cheeks. He sniffled and tried to take deep breaths. They came out shaky. 

Crowley kneeled down on the wood floor, giving him a few inches of space. Now that there didn’t seem to be any emergency, or kidnapping, or any Hell-shaped causes of worry, the panic in him subsided into concern. Concern for Aziraphale. He reached back in his memory, searching for another instance in which he’d seen the angel cry before. He couldn’t recall anything. His face twisted up in a worried grimace as he watched Aziraphale try to dry his tears.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “I’m fine, really, I-I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” replied Crowley incredulously. He scooted closer to Aziraphale, moving himself so he sat cross legged against the bookshelf, near Aziraphale. He let his head rest against a volume of Shakespeare’s plays. “Talk to me, angel.” He turned his head so he could see Aziraphale’s profile. 

He watched Aziraphale swallow hard, whisking away the handkerchief. He watched Aziraphale take a deep breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth. “It’s a long story.”

Crowley shrugged. “I like long stories.”

Aziraphale gave him a sideways glance, folding his hands in his lap. He was still trying to regulate his breathing. “I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“It’s no bother.”

Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley looked back, in earnest. He sighed. There was a long pause between the two of them before anyone spoke. 

"What am I, Crowley?" He asked eventually. Crowley tilted his head, confused. "I'm not an angel. I'm not a demon. What am I?"

Crowley didn’t know how to reply. “What do you mean, you’re not an angel?” he asked dumbly. 

Aziraphale looked around himself. “Look at me Crowley. I’m not in Heaven. Angels don’t...don’t disrupt the Great War, angels don’t give their swords away to humans, angels don’t go head to head with the four horsemen, angels don’t...” He looked down at the floor. “...consort with demons.”

“Aziraphale...”

“I can’t go back to Heaven. Can’t go to Hell, obviously. I can’t...I’m here.” Aziraphale gestured vaguely around himself. At the bookshop. “What am I doing here?”

“Well--” Crowley was grasping for anything that might make him feel better. He’d be more well equipped if he had some time to prepare. But walking in on his angel crying in a corner has still got him a bit flustered. “What if this was _all_ part of that...Great Plan?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I don’t _care_ about the Great Plan.” He paused, then looked up at Crowley in horror. “Did you hear what I just said? What kind of angel doesn’t care about the Great Plan?!” He threw his face in his hands, trying not to let any tears escape. 

Crowley scooted closer to Aziraphale, snaking an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. “Y-you know what?” he said, “Buggers, all of them. Nothing but bloody-- you’re more angel than all of them combined.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, voice muffled by his hands. 

“I mean…” _What do I mean?_ “I mean that- that, well think about it. What were you sent down here to do?” 

Aziraphale paused for a moment, glancing up at Crowley. “What?”

“What were you sent here to do? I mean, big G up there made you, right? Sent you down here, on Earth, for what purpose? What did She want you to do?” Crowley held Aziraphale tight, hoping that something he was saying was resonating with him. Hoping that something would click and hopefully make him feel better. Crowley had only been in the room with Aziraphale for about five minutes, but seeing him in such sorrow for even _this_ long was enough to bring a tear to an old demon’s eye. 

“To…” Aziraphale paused to consider this. “To protect humans, and foster good.”

Crowley nodded. “That’s right. All that. And, and thwart me of course.”

“But I _didn’t_ thwart you.”

“Weeell I didn’t thwart you either, so we can both take a point off for that one.” He paused, smiling lightly. “But I’d say you’ve fostered some pretty good...good.”

Azirapahle scoffed a little. Or was that a chuckle? “Really?”

“Really. I think you’ve done a good job. Hell, you’ve done such a good job that you prevented the war altogether. You were sent here to love humans, and you’ve loved them until you stopped the end of the world. I’d say that’s pretty angelic.” Crowley never thought he’d be sitting here trying to make an angel feel angelic, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to do it now. And, it seemed to be working a little. Aziraphale’s face was no longer buried in his hands. Instead, he opted for sitting with his legs straight out, leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley tried to hide his smile.

“Michael certainly couldn’t do that. Neither could Gabriel. He- I could say a lot of things about _that_ weasel. But this isn’t about him. He’s not nearly the angel you are. He wouldn’t _dream_ of doing the things you’ve done for humanity.”

"Crowley…"

"You ask me what you are, and I'd say an angel. A damn good one. Those buggers up there?" Crowley pointed towards the ceiling. Aziraphale followed his finger. "They don't have the right to call themselves angels."

Aziraphale looked down at the ground again. He studied the patterns in the old, scratched wood floor for a few suspended moments. His breathing was quiet and slow, much more at ease than his previous shallow gasps. Then he looked at Crowley again.

Crowley's face was almost stern. Part of him wanted to think that he was still conjuring this up out of nowhere. That the only reason he was saying things was to make Aziraphale feel better. But in his own mind, he'd been thinking about this for a while. And once he'd gotten going, he wasn't going to stop until it was all on the table. 

"They aren't angels," said Crowley. _"You're_ an angel." He reached down and put his hand over Aziraphale's, closing his fingers around it in a gentle squeeze. "You're an angel." He looked ahead, at the portion of bookshop he could see through the study door. 

There was silence between the two of them for a long time. Though it seemed that some of the tension in the air had dissipated, if only slightly. Better than nothing, Crowley concluded. They sat there for how long, he couldn’t tell. He was content with listening to Aziraphale’s breathing, which was steady now. 

Eventually, Aziraphale’s voice broke the silence. “Thank you,” he said quietly. His voice was small, but in a different way this time. A stronger way. A calmer way. “That was...thank you.”

Crowley smiled in that same smug way he always did, and nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Talking out of my ass, as usual,” he said casually. Aziraphale nudged him back.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you were being sincere.” Aziraphale shook his head slightly, trying to fix his stray hairs. “Or, well, I guess I must believe that before I go crazy. Either way. Much appreciated.”

“Well.” Crowley stood up from his place on the floor and dusted himself off, straightening the wrinkles that had taken stead in his shirt. After he was satisfied, he reached down his hand to Aziraphale. Aziraphale grabbed it gratefully, and straightened his clothes as well. Once all was neat and tidy, Crowley said, “I’m glad that’s settled for now, but to be honest, I didn’t come here for any of that.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Care for some chocolate?”

“Oh?” Aziraphale tilted his head. 

Crowley flashed a smile and turned on his heel, heading out the study door. “Got some wine too. Figured we’d make a night out of it.”

He walked up Aziraphale’s reading desk and picked up the chocolates in one hand, the wine in the other. He held them up like they were prizes. They might as well have been at this point. _Consolation prizes,_ Crowley almost said, but didn’t. “I didn’t bring glasses,” he said. 

“Oh, I have some,” remarked Aziraphale, heading towards one of his bookshelves. Pushing aside two rather dense looking encyclopedias revealed two pristine wine glasses that seemed to shimmer even in the dimmish light of the room. 

Crowley was amused. “What secrecy,” he said, reaching down to pull the cork out of the bottle of wine. It had magically popped out all by itself though--with a wiggle of Crowley’s eyebrows, of course. 

“I’ve got a few things up my sleeve,” said Aziraphale, producing the glasses. He held one in each hand, watching as Crowley filled them generously.

Once done, they took a seat at the desk. Aziraphale at his chair, Crowley perching on the desk itself, legs crossed over one another. He opened the box of chocolates with his free hand and took one out. He held it over his mouth up in the air, decadently, which made Aziraphale chuckle. 

“Lovely,” he heard Aziraphale mumble. “Just lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you,” Crowley said back. Aziraphale smiled.

So did Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> drop a comment?


End file.
